


Pretty as a Picture

by JaneSkazki



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:09:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneSkazki/pseuds/JaneSkazki
Summary: Imagine Glow Up crossed with Death in Paradise and Grayson Perry's Art Club. You can probably only do that if, like me, you've been watching too much British tv this year.
Kudos: 3





	Pretty as a Picture

Lieutenant Sulu finally tracked down his friend just before noon. It was the sixth hotel he'd tried, a bamboo villa on long stilts above the placid waters of the lagoon.

Sulu almost turned round and walked away again the moment he entered the lobby from the plank walkway. The place was expensive beyond an ensign's dreams. A small nursery of flowering shrubs in artistic planters was blowing in the moist breeze from the air conditioning. Music, from a live quartet, drifted from a balcony where tables were being set for lunch in the cool twilight of a traditional woven palm leaf roof. A faint chatter of voices from an unseen bar, probably overlooking the main waterway, hummed in the background.

But from the twilight there also came a Russian voice. It sounded like Chekov was reporting in.

Sulu stuck his own communicator back on his belt.

"I apologise," Chekov was saying. "Our room... the hotel room is enormous. I did not hear my communicator."

The lieutenant leaned against one of the sturdy upright timbers in the woven bamboo wall, right behind where Chekov was standing. He could hear Uhura too. She was plainly annoyed.

"But do you know where the captain is?"

"He is... I think he is still asleep."

"Is his room huge too? Or were both of you so drunk last night that you couldn't put your communicators on the nightstand by the bed?"

Chekov muttered something indecipherable.

"But if Admiral Lalaurie wants him, you can wake him up?"

"I should think so," Chekov conceded, rather unwillingly to Sulu's ears.

"You're not planning on going off to have lunch somewhere?" Uhura checked.

"Please. Don't even talk about lunch."

"Oh. One of those nights, was it? I heard from Doctor McCoy that the captain was unwinding nicely." Uhura chuckled.

Chekov muttered again.

"What was that, sugar?"

"I said, he was certainly very relaxed."

"You sound as if you don't approve. He's entitled to shore leave just like the rest of us."

"Of course."

Uhura wasn't taken in by this diplomatic response. "Grow up, chickadee. You sound like a teenager who's just discovered his father suffering from a hangover. What was that?"

"I said, he earned it."

"Look, if you want to earn some gold stars for yourself, why don't you find the bartender and ask him to send a Finnegan's Revenge up to the captain's room?"

"Because, for one thing, I could not pay for it, and for a second, the whole hotel is just above sea level. There is no 'up'."

"Where are you?" Uhura sounded surprised.

There was a pause, while Chekov glanced at the menu covers, Sulu assumed.

"I think it is called the Maui Royale."

Uhura's intake of breath was loud enough to register over the communicator and through the wall. "Who's picking up _your_ tab, honey? Did you find yourself a rich girlfriend last night?"

"No."

"Well, if you won't tell me, someone else will," the communications officer pointed out, accurately enough.

"I shared a room with someone."

"Ooooh."

"Was that all you _needed_ to know?" Chekov asked pointedly.

"Who?"

"What?"

"Who did you share with? Anyone I know?"

Chekov just sighed.

"I guess I'll find that out later too," Uhura said. "Hold on... Mister Spock wants to know when you're planning to come back on board. Did the captain say what time he was planning to rejoin the living?"

"The captain did not inform me of his intentions in that regard," Chekov said.

"Okay... Mister Spock wants to know what time you retired last night."

Chekov was silent for a moment. "I went to bed at about four thirty. I think."

"And was the captain still up then?"

"We left the bar at the same time."

"Which bar was that? Gurdello's?"

"Yes. That was one of them."

Uhura laughed. "This is so unfair. Gama is the nicest shoreleave planet there is. So long as you avoid the obvious temptations." She paused. "You _did_ avoid the obvious temptations, didn't you? You sound awfully subdued, sugar."

Sulu thought so too. He wondered briefly whether to sneak away before he was seen and leave Chekov to recover from his morning-after gloom in luxurious solitude.

"Lieutenant..."

"Yes?"

"I... uh... Is Doctor McCoy aboard?"

"Yes. He's not on duty. He might even be asleep. He didn't get to bed much earlier than you did, from what you say. D'you want to speak to Chris Chapel?"

A note of concern had entered the communications officer's voice.

"No," Chekov said hastily. "It is not urgent."

"D'you want me to leave a message asking him to call you when he wakes up?"

"No. Yes..."

"Chekov..." The sound of Uhura's voice went flat suddenly. "I'm on a muted mike. No one can hear us this end but me. There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"No."

"Shall I find Sulu? He's out there somewhere looking for you and the captain already. I have to call off the search, so..."

"No!"

There was no response, but Sulu could imagine Uhura pursing her lips, frustrated and concerned.

"Just remember you're the captain's alarm call," she said severely. "Take care of yourself."

The bamboo rattled as Chekov knocked it while putting his communicator away. Then it creaked, as he leaned back against the lattices, only a centimetre of dead vegetable matter away from Sulu. The helmsman switched his own communicator off, so that the call Uhura was doubtless about to make wouldn't give his presence away. He was still debating the merits of a discrete departure.

Chekov sighed the kind of sigh that makes people adopt abandoned puppies.

"So why don't you want me to come look for you?" Sulu asked.

"Boxhe moi! What in the name of God are you doing there?"

Through the gaps between the split canes, Sulu could see Chekov's silhouette, hands on hips, glowering -- he imagined -- at the wall. He wondered how visible he was in turn. The door out to the terrace was a good twenty feet away, and Chekov didn't seem to be in any hurry to use it.

"I was waiting for you to finish your call."

"Well, I have, so now you can go."

"...And admiring your taste in hotels. Do you need to borrow my credit chip?"

"No, I... uh... I think someone else will be paying the bill."

"Okay."

"But thank you."

"Don't mention it."

Chekov still seemed to be waiting for Sulu to leave.

"I thought I might go to the lava pools, before I have to report back," Sulu suggested, more for something to say than anything else.

"I believe they are very beautiful," Chekov agreed. "They may close for lunch. You should go now."

"Why don't I buy you lunch here instead?"

"You can't afford it. Go away."

Sulu considered. "Promise me you're not in any kind of trouble, and I'll go."

Taking the lack of an immediate and forceful denial as a de facto cry for urgent assistance, Sulu said, "Wait there," and hurried for the door. When he emerged onto the terrace, Chekov had gone.

He went back inside to the reception desk. A native female of extraordinary beauty smiled at him from beneath a floral headdress. "Can I help you?"

"Yes. Which room is Ensign Chekov in?"

She cast an eye down to the data panel set in the desktop. The Gaman display was illegible to Sulu.

"We don't have..."

"I'm Starfleet," Sulu pointed at his badge. "Ensign Chekov is Starfleet. He probably arrived here with Captain Kirk, who is so Starfleet, if you cut him in half, you'd probably see it spelled out in red across the cross section."

"Oh. Captain Kirk's in the Starfish Suite. Along there." She pointed, all smiles again.

That was Gama all over: no need to consider that a guest might not want to receive visitors. No crime, no press, no fathers with shotguns. As near to heaven on a planet as anyone could imagine.

Which made Chekov's behaviour all the more peculiar.

"Well, Ensign Chekov probably arrived at about the same time. He's a little younger than me, dark hair..."

"Yes. The Starfish Suite. It's at the end of the veranda."

"They're both in the same suite?"

She seemed surprised that he was surprised, which again was fairly typical of Gama.

Heading along the corridor to an open door, beyond which small sailing boats were gliding to and fro, Sulu decided that it was probably just a friendly arrangement. The captain would have rolled in here, very relaxed, as Chekov had put it, realised that the youngest member of the drinking party couldn't even afford to rent a broom closet for the night, and offered the ensign the use of a couch.

However, he realised, it was very unlikely now that Chekov would risk disturbing his benefactor, simply in order to play hide and seek with his helm partner.

He noticed the label 'steam room' on the door he was just then passing, and decided to go in. In an ante room there were cubby-holes for the clothes of anyone using the facilities. One contained clothes that a quick inspection identified as Starfleet uniform. There were also stacks of neatly folded towels in tropical flower colours. Sulu shrugged, shucked his own uniform, filed it next to Chekov's and entered the steam room itself, clad only in a bright gold towel. A lone figure wrapped in indian paintbrush scarlet and flag blue, lay on the plank bench, at the lowest, coolest level, face down.

Sulu sat next to him. "The first time I came to Gama, I got drunk and had some... personal piercing done. I was too shy -- I think I was younger than you are now -- to go see the ship's surgeon, and the wounds went bad. I spent twelve hours in intensive therapy and a month on report for being such an idiot."

"What do you mean, 'the wounds went bad'?" Chekov asked anxiously.

"Just that. I went somewhere _really_ cheap. They used dirty equipment and I didn't get the doctor to check me over soon enough. When I finally did go see him, with a fever and balls big enough for tennis, he told me he'd already removed enough studs, rings and chains to start a scrap metal business, and I shouldn't be such a prude the next time."

"Fuck," Chekov said.

"Presumably you did this before you met up with the captain?" Sulu checked. "Because if it was more than about twelve hours ago, you should get back to sickbay right now."

"I have not had anything pierced," Chekov said, giving exaggerated emphasis to each word.

"Then what's bugging you?"

For a moment, Chekov held out, then he asked in an unusually subdued tone, "Can you catch... whatever you caught... from being tattooed?"

Sulu was surprised. Tattoos had been the tourist fashion on Gama a few seasons previously. The native art was widely practised by the locals, and was of sufficient merit to find its way into galleries and museums across the Federation, at least in the form of pictures and sculptures of the living canvases. The cheap tourist version, however, was currently out of favour, except amongst the most unsophisticated visitors.

"Depends how it's done," Sulu hazarded, not being personally acquainted with the problem. "If it was needles, then I suggest you hightail it out of here and get an appointment with the doctor before your skin starts to peel off in sheets. If it was a hypo, you should be okay. And a lot less sore, I imagine. And anyhow, Doctor McCoy will check you out when he removes it. Where did you have it done?"

"On the waterfront, opposite the casino."

Sulu chuckled at Chekov's ability to miss the point. He mopped a drop of sweat out of his eyes. He hadn't been along that way on this visit. The casino end of the waterfront was the haunt of wealthier and usually middle aged visitors. Then he remembered who Chekov had apparently been with some of the time last night. It was possible that Kirk, and the captains of the Ramirez and the New Orleans, had gone there.

"Pavel... does the captain know about this?"

"Yes."

"He didn't catch you coming out of the shop, by any chance?"

"No."

"Not that I think you'd get into any trouble over it. It's strictly against regulations, but if you have it removed, and take your antibiotics, I don't think anyone will give a damn really."

Chekov just lay there.

"So, do I get to see it, or do I have to guess? What does it say? Mother?"

The ensign sighed and rolled over onto his back, still holding his towel round himself. Sulu moved closer to see clearly through the steam. Chekov's left cheek was facing him, and a quick glance confirmed that only the left side was relevant. Chekov's right cheek was unadorned and, for someone in a steam room, unusually pale.

"Was the tattooist as drunk as you were?" Sulu asked eventually. He couldn't think of anything more tactful to say. The design was abstract, or unrecognisable. The colours were reminiscent of the stack of towels in the anteroom.

Chekov swallowed, drawing Sulu's attention to the fact that the design extended to his neck.

"I'm not seeing all of it, am I?"

"No." The tone of Chekov's answer suggested that Sulu's last remark had been interpreted as an unwelcome request as much as a clarification of the facts.

"Okay. Well... What is it? Fifty percent coverage? Ninety? This might take a bit longer to clean up than a few dragons round your biceps." Sulu had another thought. "It must have cost you a few credits too..."

"I didn't pay for it."

Sulu's estimation of his friend's character recovered by a few notches. "I bet he didn't like that."

"Who?"

"The tattoo artist. If artist is the right word." Sulu tried turning his head sideways to see if the visible portion of the design worked better the right way up. "Most of the guys who do this stuff look as if they'll kill you as soon as look at you, even if you have paid your bill."

It suddenly occurred to him, how Kirk must have got involved. An argument, or even a fight, would have attracted immediate attention even in the backstreets of Gama-town where the skin artists were mostly found. On the waterfront, it would have been a major incident. Presumably the captain had come to Chekov's rescue, and taken him back to the hotel to sober up before facing McCoy's sarcasm.

"C'mon. Let's get you back to the ship. The captain might be less amused by all this when he wakes up than he was last night."

"If Captain Kirk is at all amused by this," Chekov said through clenched teeth, rising to his feet and clutching the towel protectively around himself, "I shall kill him."

Sulu sighed as he adjusted his own towel and stood up. "If you're going to be this stupid, you have to learn to laugh at yourself when everyone else does. Come on, let me see it. It'll be gone soon."

Rather to Sulu's surprise, Chekov did as he asked. He released the towel and let it fall to the floor.

"Oh." It took a moment for Sulu to realise what he was seeing. The artist -- the word seemed appropriate now -- had created an image that was half starship and half man, and more than either. Struggling to find words for it, Sulu discounted starship schematics and anatomical drawings, but hesitated to start in on high art.

"Turn round."

Chekov obliged again. The tattoo extended over slightly more than half his body, but so skilfully that it was hard to pinpoint where natural flesh became a canvas.

Even though the ensign was completely naked, and even though Sulu might have admitted -- although not to Chekov -- to being slightly susceptible to the ensign's charms, the effect was not erotic at all.

"Move."

"What do you mean?"

"Your arms. Raise your arms."

The starship took flight.

"My god..."

"What is wrong, apart from the obvious?"

Sulu stepped forward and knelt down by Chekov's feet. Chekov immediately stepped back.

"I'm just looking for the signature."

Sulu knew exactly where it would be. He was no judge of whether it was genuine or not, but he wasn't in a great deal of doubt.

"How the hell could you refuse to pay for this?" he demanded.

"I didn't pay for it," Chekov snarled back, "because I didn't ask him to do it."

"But it's... even Mensheera's sketches on marble are priceless. I can't begin to imagine what he could charge for something like this."

Chekov shrugged, plainly confused. He retrieved his towel and wrapped it round his waist. "I'm glad you like it."

"How long did it take?" Sulu asked, following him out into the anteroom and accepting his uniform.

"I have no idea. I think I fell asleep for some of the time."

Sulu tried to visualise the scenario. While it wasn't impossible that one of their more irresponsible shipmates -- Riley, for example -- might arrange for someone to abduct Chekov and tattoo him, the likely outcome would be an extremely crooked anchor or bunch of roses and bruises on all sides. That Chekov had fallen asleep suggested a different scenario, the use of drugs perhaps. Was this some new terrorist movement? Avant garde artists forcibly decorating Starfleet officers, in support of an application for increased grants?

As Chekov replaced his black undershirt something caught Sulu's eye on the ensign's shoulderblade. "Hold on a moment..."

This time Chekov let him get close without complaint, possibly because he was decently dressed at this point. "What is it?" he asked, when Sulu didn't volunteer any commentary.

"The name of the ship is the 'New Orleans'. Admiral Lalaurie's ship. Why did you pick that one? Or did they think you were from the 'New Orleans'?"

"I think the admiral knows who is, and who is not, a member of his own crew," Chekov said stiffly.

Illumination struck. "They _all_ got drunk, and old Lala paid for this?"

Chekov tugged his tunic sharply into place. "Apparently."

"Does the captain know? I mean, has he woken up and seen you?"

"No. I thought we were going back to the ship?" Sulu's interest in the tattoo was plainly beginning to irritate Chekov. He went over to the door and stood turned so that Sulu could see very little of the work, apart from a tendril of warp trail that extended down the back of Chekov's right hand and onto his middle finger.

Sulu hastily finished dressing. "Yes. Only..."

"What?"

"Well, to start with, you're supposed to be hanging around in case anyone needs the captain."

"I willl wake him now," Chekov said sweetly. "Having considered the matter, I would like to see his reaction to my appearance before I have to endure the reaction of everyone else."

Sulu decided the revenge was probably justified, although he had no intention of intruding on it, just in case he got caught in the crossfire.

"Okay, but there's something else. I really don't think..."

"What?" Chekov was now affecting boredom.

"I don't think you can remove it without recording it first."

"You think Starfleet will court martial the admiral?" Chekov sounded a little taken aback at the idea, although Sulu really had to wonder why it hadn't occurred to either of them earlier. It could hardly be legal for admirals to tattoo ensigns.

"Oh, if that happens, they probably have plenty of witnesses," Sulu said dismissively. "I meant for posterity. I'm not much of a judge of art but..."

"Perhaps," Chekov said coldly, "I could ask Doctor McCoy to wait for a few days, and offer viewings."

"I mean a vid, that's all."

"That's all? I presume you want to vid _all_ of it?"

"It's art, Chekov," Sulu pleaded. "It's not as if... you could wear a jock strap."

"Oh. You didn't look as carefully as I thought you did." Chekov pushed open the door and swept out into the hotel corridor, only to find himself face to face with an impeccably groomed, but still somehow rumpled, Captain Kirk.

"Omigod. I didn't dream the whole thing," Kirk exclaimed. He covered his eyes with his hands. "Get back on board. Go straight to sick bay. I'll talk to you later."

"Lieutenant Sulu thinks I should be recorded first."

Kirk lowered his hands and looked at his helmsman. "Why? Are you planning to blackmail me?"

"I thought I'd go for the whole admiralty, Captain. I might not get an opportunity like this again." Sulu was relieved to see Kirk fighting a smile. "Seriously, sir, this is a Mensheera, isn't it? Or a very good copy."

"That name sounds familiar," Kirk admitted. "I'm not too well informed on the subject. There were some dancers in the bar who had some pretty impressive tattoos. Sandy said he knew where we could see something even better. I think we started out just intending to look round a gallery. They have live models, as well as dummies and vids. Then the owner -- Mensheera? -- anyhow, he started showing us around and talking about what he could do, and... we weren't thinking too straight. I suppose I knew at the back of my mind that this kind of thing isn't really permanent, so I... went along with it. But anyway, we started out looking at the erotic stuff, and then we saw a couple of sketches he was working on for something like this." Kirk gestured vaguely at the work of art concealed beneath Chekov's uniform. "And just at that moment, it seemed like a good idea." He shrugged. "Now, I think you should see Doctor McCoy just as soon as you can, unless you want to start learning how my replacement as your captain likes things done." Kirk added a hopeful smile to this appeal to their loyalty.

Sulu ignored it on principle. "I just had a thought," he said. "There were two men looking not at all like MP's standing on the walkway outside the hotel. Only I know one of them, and he is."

"Maybe he's on shoreleave," Kirk suggested.

Sulu shook his head. "He was sober. Captain, is it possible that anyone saw you... enjoying yourselves last night?"

"What do you mean?" Chekov asked anxiously.

"He means that if our... behaviour was seen by some Starfleet stuffed shirt, we _all_ might be in trouble. And when a captain is in trouble, he's allowed to sleep off the night before, and then he's escorted quietly but firmly to report to the local CO, which would be Commodore Harker..." Kirk's expression became even more worried. "Sulu, are you any good with small boats?"

"Captain... Are you suggesting..."

"I want you to hire one of those gondola affairs and bring it round to the other side of the hotel. Sandy -- Admiral Lalaurie, I mean -- is retiring next week. That was why we were celebrating. If we remove the evidence, the whole thing will blow over."

"Yes, sir," Sulu said uncertainly.

"No one knows you saw the MPs. And going for a boat trip is the most natural thing to do on Gama."

"No, it's okay, sir, only..."

"What?" Kirk sounded at once sheepish and impatient.

"You can't. Just ask Doctor McCoy to remove it, I mean. It would be like whitewashing the Last Supper, or replacing the Great Wall of China with some nice larch lap panels."

Chekov folded his arms and took a step back. "Speaking as a piece of utility fencing material, I think the captain's plan has several good points."

"He's going to lose it sooner or later," Kirk pointed out. "Or are you saying he should spend the rest of his life being ogled by parties of school children?"

"We have to make a vid. And if we make a vid, then there's no point Chekov getting himself deeper into trouble by playing cat and mouse games with the MPs."

"Chekov didn't see the MPs. This is all supposition, Lieutenant. I think a little sea trip will do him the world of good. Now."

Sulu scowled. "Have you _looked_ at it, Captain. Do you know what you're planning to destroy?"

"I'm no connoisseur," Kirk said. "And I don't intend ordering Chekov to undress so I can start learning now. It's probably nothing special. It only took this Men-whatever half an hour. He probably earns his living selling the same picture to all the passing brass."

"He doesn't need to, Captain. Didn't you see... there was something in the newsvids a few weeks ago about someone stealing a Mensheera. They said it was valued at over fifty million credits."

Both his adversaries looked impressed, but unconvinced. "Get a boat," Chekov said. "And don't forget to order two Finnegan's Revenges as you pass reception. On the captain's account."

"How will I find you?" Sulu checked, giving in to the philistine majority. He was pretty sure McCoy had good cameras in sickbay.

"The suite has a sun terrace," Kirk told him. "The planking is painted bright pink. You'll see it a mile away. Don't take too long."

Sulu ordered the hangover cures and exited the hotel. The MPs were still there, pretending to watch the fishing boats in the bay. He nodded casually to the one he knew, who seemed to find him invisible. Ten minutes later, he was poling a flat-bottomed skiff along the multi-hued row of sun terraces, looking for 'bright pink' among rose, fuschia, raspberry and marshmallow. He'd just identified the particular bubblegum shade in question, aided by the presence of an ensign sipping a characteristic bright orange drink in a squat glass, when a phaser shot holed his boat and it promptly sank right out from under him. He turned his unexpected disembarkation into a neat dive to the bottom, and didn't come up until he was safe in the shadows under the terraces. Making what use he could of the hotel's stilts as cover, he tried to work his way towards the Starfish Suite, cursing the weight of his sodden uniform and boots.

He was fifty yards or so from his goal when a muscular arm impeded his further progress.

"And just where do you think you're going?" The voice was muffled by a face mask. Sulu struggled fruitlessly, and to add to his problems, he was ducked and held under for a good minute. When he was allowed to surface, he was facing his assailant, who had removed his mask. It was Lieutenant Greaves from Security on the Ramirez.

"I'm just..." Sulu sneezed the salt water out of his nostrils. "...enjoying Gama. Or at least I was."

"Dammit, Sulu. We're in the middle of an operation. You could have been killed. Get behind that post and stay put."

"Since when does Starfleet use phasers to arrest a few drunk and disorderly officers?" Sulu demanded. "Particularly an officer who's only a few days off an honorable retirement?"

Greaves stared at him blankly. "What the fuck are you talking about? This is theft and abuse of sentient rights, not to mention..."

"It was just a stupid prank, Greaves. Let me get Chekov out of here and..."

A waterproof B5 phaser appeared instantly in the redshirt's hand. "Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, I'm arresting you on suspicion of grand larceny and trafficking in sentient beings."

Sulu was surprised that he could be so easily handcuffed while thrashing wildly in more than eight feet of water. Greaves then slammed him into an algae-covered pillar and pinned him there while he chanted the obligatory notification of his rights. Finally he hooked the cuffs over a rusty nail that stuck out of the pillar two feet above the surface of the water and said grimly, "Lucky for you the tide isn't going out. I'll come back when we've caught the rest of the gang."

It took Sulu about thirty seconds to free himself, but only because there were ridges on the pillar beneath the water that enabled him to take his weight off the cuffs. He fell back into the sea with a conspicuous splash but Greaves was under water by then, and didn't come back to investigate. By now, Sulu had worked out the basics of what was happening. A Mensheera was worth unimaginable wealth. Chekov _was_ a Mensheera. Someone had thoughtfully scattered a small brigade of redshirts around the hotel to protect the ensign.

But if the thieves had thought it necessary to risk killing an innocent by-punter, then they were obviously willing to play rough, and must be about to make their move. Sulu swam as silently as he could back towards the pink terrace. If Greaves was typical of the men assigned to the task, and he couldn't even restrain an unarmed drowned rat of a law-abiding Starfleet officer, Sulu was distinctly worried about the quality of the protection he would be able to afford Chekov, or the captain.

He trod water directly beneath the pink sun terrace, trying to keep an eye open for any more redshirts in the water, and for any sign of approaching art thieves. It was fortunate that Gama's highly ionised upper atmosphere made anything other than pad to pad transports impossible, or Chekov could have been halfway to Orion space by now. Presumably word had only just reached the thieves that a new Mensheera was available, or they would undoubtedly have struck under cover of darkness.

Still, it didn't make sense. Apart from sparing the captain's blushes, there was no reason why Chekov and Kirk could not have been safely escorted back to the ship the moment the authorities became aware of their exploit.

Or maybe it was a matter of sparing Lalaurie's blushes.

A shadow passed overhead. "Chekov!" Sulu hissed.

The shadow stopped. Whoever it was knelt down and peered between the boards. "Sulu? What the hell are you doing down there? I told you to bring a boat."

"Captain. I think you're in danger. There are art thieves trying to steal Chekov. One of them shot the boat out from under me."

"Your first command, and you sink it," Kirk said severely.

"I'm serious, Captain. There are security people all around, but they're more interested in working off their resentment at being ordered to spend their shoreleave time in wetsuits than in protecting Chekov. I think... Does that sound like a speedboat to you?"

Speedboats were illegal on Gama.

"Take cover," Kirk snapped. "Chekov..."

It took Sulu about half a second to work out that he really couldn't do anything to help. He submerged and started swimming for the public walkway, the MPs, and safety.

By the time he climbed up the steps onto the planking the MPs had gone from outside the hotel, presumably summoned by their colleagues.

The hotel lobby was full of hysterical guests. Sulu dodged onto the veranda and pulled out his communicator. He shook the moisture carefully off the case before opening it. "Uhura?"

"Where the hell have you been?" she demanded instantly. "I've been trying to get hold of you. Captain Kirk's been involved in foiling an attempted art robbery. And Chekov's injured, or something. They say it's not serious, but they're taking him straight to sickbay...

***

Chekov smiled at the lady reporter from Vogue. Her assistant -- male, with camera -- continued to circle the ensign a little too closely, in Sulu's opinion, but Chekov had eyes only for the lady.

"So how does it feel to be responsible for foiling a notorious gang of interplanetary art thieves?" she was asking.

"It is all part of the job," Chekov told her seriously. Sulu rolled his eyes at him behind her back.

"And... are you free this evening?" she asked, shutting down her elegant slimline padd and slipping it into her shoulder bag. "For a drink, perhaps? Or dinner?"

Chekov shrugged, causing the assistant to tut discontentedly. "Yes, but... Doctor McCoy is removing the tattoo this afternoon."

"You think you might be sore?" She seemed doubtful. "A friend of mine had a tiger taken off her back a few weeks ago, and she was skiing later the same day."

Chekov looked flustered. "I meant, I thought you would no longer be interested..."

She smiled, and suddenly became pretty in addition to being beautiful. "Working with great art day in, day out... you learn to appreciate the people behind it as much as the finished article."

THE END


End file.
